


With You I Have An Alibi

by noblet



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Freeform, Insomnia, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Second Person, Self Confidence Issues, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:38:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblet/pseuds/noblet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Such a proud moment of professionalism. You work for years crafting cogent satirical essays and the thing that everybody remembers is me making love to a Chiquita and bursting into laughter. What you can't see off camera is Jon started laughing first. And then I'm weak. As much as I want to make the audience laugh, I really want to make Jon laugh."</i>
</p><p>Or, "insomnia sure knows how to take its toll."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With You I Have An Alibi

**Author's Note:**

> Written after [Moscow by Autopilot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIRgN6xTjnA) appeared on my discovery playlist. Particularly after I heard the lines _It’s not hard with you I have an alibi / You don’t care the reason why I misapply_. It's a happy song, I don't know why I wrote something dark.

_“Such a proud moment of professionalism. You work for years crafting cogent satirical essays and the thing that everybody remembers is me making love to a Chiquita and bursting into laughter. What you can't see off camera is Jon started laughing first. And then I'm weak. As much as I want to make the audience laugh, I really want to make Jon laugh.”_

=====

Your mind tells you it’s getting late. Your mind tells you a lot of things (that you’re amazing, that you’re the worst, that every day is a new opportunity, that you shouldn’t even bother getting out of bed.) Despite your ambiguous thoughts, you believe what your mind is telling you. It’s late. _Too late_. You should be home right now. Sleeping (even though you never sleep) or watching the news (even though you don’t pay attention) or standing out on the balcony (even though you no longer look up to the stars and ponder your own mortality.) If your mind were made up, you’d be anywhere but here in your office with Stephen, who’s halfway undressed with his lips on your ear.

In his defense, you were _never_ well-versed in making up your mind.

When you come, knuckles white in Stephen’s hair, he stands up from between your thighs and looks at you with a smirk on his face. He kisses you and your thoughts freeze, stuck in the sudden realization that even if your mind were made up you still wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here. Then, in an act both subconscious and instinctual, you kiss back.

=====

Sometimes, back when you used to be in the same building, he’d come up to you and ask, “Great friends, or _greatest_ friends?”

You have no idea how you responded.

=====

He never leaves your side. Even when you show up to work half-dead, scowling at the world, he doesn’t leave you alone.

“Bad hair day,” you joke when Stephen asks you what’s wrong. You laugh. He doesn’t.

You're supposed to be funny. Even when you’re on your fourth cup of coffee (or maybe it's your fifth) and you have to be reminded which camera to stare down, you still have to be funny. It’s your job, so you shut up, take your medicine, and drive to work.

Sometimes he makes you laugh. You’re _always_ the one to crack first, seconds before the camera decides to flit back to Stephen in front of the green screen and then you’re both laughing, you with your script held to just under your eyes while Stephen doubles over with his shoulders stiff, shaking. When you’re able to collect yourself, you square your papers on your desk and sit up straight. For the first time in a long time, you feel normal.

=====

The phone is hot in your hand and you lay slack in bed. The clock is showing three AM but your body insists it's much earlier. You can hear Stephen’s tinny voice from the speaker. “Are you there?” “What’s wrong?” “Jon?” You don't remember why you called him in the first place. You don't even remember when you got into bed.

“Sorry, wrong number,” you mumble into the receiver. You set the phone down next to your head and tell yourself you’re going to sleep.

=====

Sometimes, when you haven’t slept in less than forty-eight hours, you’re convinced he’s an angel sent from God.

=====

When you were a teenager you didn’t give your lack of sleep a second thought. You just stayed up for the fun of it. School was easy. You always liked math because there can only be one right answer. English is a bitch.

What does this passage mean?

What is the author trying to say?

What is the true message in this work?

To you, all the questions sound the same. They're parallel to the questions you ask yourself. Who are you? What do you mean? What message are you trying to put out?

You like being right. Everyone does. Math lets you do just that. Practice a few problems, learn a few equations. You're set.

English is ambiguous.

_In Romeo and Juliet, the two protagonists fall in love. Is it possible for teenagers to fall in love? If so, can their love be genuine? Why or why not?_

You don’t know how to answer. _Yes_ , you write, but five minutes later you cross everything out and write _no._ How the hell are you supposed to know? You’ve never loved anyone before. But you _are_ a teenager, so logically any answer you give will be at least half-right.

=====

While you were doing standup, you convinced yourself it was normal to sleep in until two, normal to stay awake until five, normal to portray a false sense of confidence on stage.

Now, at forty-nine, you still assume what you were doing is normal.

=====

Normal. What is normal? Stephen insists it’s not normal that your favorite day is Monday. You’re convinced work gives your life the structure you didn’t know you needed. Stephen’s favorite day is Saturday. He says he calls you at eight every Saturday morning, but you never pick up.

“I was getting coffee,” you say. Or, “I was in the shower.” Or, “I was taking the dog for a walk.”

Or, _I haven’t slept in three days and I haven’t showered in four I can’t wait for work to start next week because I can’t wait to see you what’s wrong with me what’s wrong with me what’s wrong with me_ -

=====

The days stitch themselves together until they all form one, neat, linear thread. The days and months and years come and go and pass so quickly you can't even tell when one ends and the other starts.

=====

Your publicist doesn’t let you do interviews anymore. (You never give answers the audience wants to hear, Jon. Don’t you understand you’re supposed to lie?)

“Why did you become interested in comedy?”

“Who is the real Jon Stewart?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Which song do you love to hate?”

“What’s your biggest fear?”

The only question you know how to answer honestly is the last one. You have a million fears, each one ready for the picking. Every day your tree of phobias blossom a few more to choose from. You can name couple off the top of your head. _Heights. Lung Cancer. Failure. Being used. Feeling angry. Feeling nothing._

=====

You're thirteen again. You're thirteen again and he's yelling but you feel five. It's the hopelessness of it all, it's the sinking feeling you get in your chest whenever your dad barges into the room, bearing eyes that belong to something not human. It's the friends you don't talk to anymore, the teachers you no longer impress. It's the… It's the…

=====

One day, Stephen looks at you with his head tilted, mouth in a lopsided line of concern. His eyes are soft and warm. “I love you,” he says, and for a long time you don’t respond because you’re pretty sure your mind made it all up.

“Jon?” Stephen says again and touches your hand. You look up. You didn’t even realize you were looking down.

You love him. You know you do. But how the hell are you supposed to give him something you can’t give yourself? It’s the damn _Romeo and Juliet_ question all over again.

=====

“I love you,” Stephen tells you again, at different times, on different days, on different occasions.

You're standing backstage when Stephen comes up to you and pulls you into his arms. “Thank you for all of this,” he mumbles into your hair. He’s going to be on stage in fifteen minutes and instead of spending them reading his script he’s spending it with you. Why? You’re not sure how to respond. You deserve it? Don’t thank me? Does he deserve it? Should he thank you? You don’t say anything, but you can tell what he’s thinking and he the same.

You have a new dog now. You decided to name him Art because Shamsky sounded too solitary and you couldn't think of a name any more pretentious. You're laying on the studio roof together staring up at the empty sky. Art curls up on Stephen's lap and the air nips at your exposed arms. Then, sometime between eleven and midnight, you say it, but it gets lost in the wind.

The two of you are old now. You come on his show for the first time- for the last time, and you wonder why you didn’t do it sooner.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” Three words that span nearly twenty years that you only regarded as a slip of the tongue are quick to become centric in your thoughts.

You come around. Stephen leaves his show and you decide to follow suit.

Eventually (on August 6th, 2015, when you’re holding back tears as he soliloquies across the desk), you let yourself believe him. _I love you_ , you say that night, and Stephen gives you a look you've never seen before in your life.

**Author's Note:**

> (Fic was originally titled Angst 2.0) Will I ever stop naming fics after song lyrics? Maybe.


End file.
